Anna Grin
by Larissa Fae
Summary: He was her Glasgow baby, her smile when she couldn't. She was his delusion, his make-believe of all make-believes. A series of Joker/Ramirez-centric one-shots.
1. Anna Grin

He'd been making a study of human expressions, broadening his horizons, so to speak. He'd been told he couldn't recognise pain and sorrow as well as other emotions. He saw anger, he saw happy, and he'd been told once that maybe the reason he hurt people was because he couldn't recognise the facials signs that told him to _stop_.

He'd laughed at that. He saw pain and fear just fine; he was interested in what made people feel them, so of course he set up his own little experiments. Sometimes he even wore a white lab coat to get that professional feel. It was all about image, or so he was told, a trustworthy image as carefully crafted as his filthy purple suit and permanent bad hair day.

It was about _the message_.

And oh, _oh_, how his lady sent her message. She sent it with the easy confidence of her strides, the sidelong looks to see if she was being followed, the tightening of her lips that said she didn't want to be in this dingy bar, _oh no she didn't_, didn't want to meet with Maroni's man _him, of course, in yet another costume designed to _send a message_ to people,_ didn't want anything but dear old Gramma's hospital bills to _go away_.

He'd forced a shower upon himself _who said psychopaths had poor self-control?_ for this date, gnashed his teeth and growled to himself as the water cleaned him off, washed away his face --- he would put it back on later. After. Post. Post-grin. Post-_her_. Right now he wanted to huddle at the end of the bar and _watch_ her as she waited, jumpy in this nest of vipers that she herself was part of, part of but thinking she was _better than_, better than but _just the same as_.

Her face. Her face. Her beautiful _face_ was all round eyes, round cheeks, full lips pulled into a _frown_, his lady was _unhappy_ and he _knew_ it, _saw_ it --- he must be getting better at seeing emotions. Oh, but he had her grin already, all ready for her to make her happy again, and he would, he mused as he shoved away from the bar and sauntered over to her, he _would _make her smile.

"I knew this lady," he declared as he edged in between her and an overly-muscled Italian. She looked at him out of the corner of her eye. "She gave me an Anna grin every time she came around."

The nails of her left hand _no ring there, his lady, ripe for the plucking, no one waiting at home and worrying, no one but Gramma-in-the-Hospital_ rapped sharply on the bar counter, the only sign of annoyance as he looked her up and down, the only sign of his grin the crinkling of the corners of his eyes.

"Is there a reason you're talking to me?"

Oh, she wounded him deep as she brushed him off, and he couldn't _didn't_ stop the small snuffles of laughter the crept out of his scarf. He flicked his fingers at the bartender. "You look like you could use a drink. What's your poison? Jack an' Coke? Get my lady here a Jack an' Coke," he ordered, still grinning, his voice a natural whine but not whiney.

That was her cue, enter stage left, put on her best _most reluctant_ smile and treat him nice. She cradled the drink but didn't partake _not a drinker, his smile_, just watched him out of her big round brown eyes, her hair today curled for the occasion _he'd twisted his to get it curlier, aiming to impress his smile rather than frighten her_ and black in the dark lighting, her lips red like she never wore at work _just one of the guys_.

He slipped into a drawl, watching the reflection of neon in her brown eyes from far too close. "What's your name, love? What's your story? I'm a great dancer; take a twirl with me."

Charming, charming, Mr. Charming, that was his name, that was what got her off of the bar stool and on to the dance floor, resting her cheek against his shoulder while they rocked to the music, her curls tickling against his nose as he breathed in her perfume _vanilla had always been a favourite of his, how had she known? his oh-so-magic lady_ and reveled in the warmth of a body close to his that wasn't quaking with fear or revulsion, no, his lady would never treat him like that, would she? Not while he wore her grin.

Oh, she probably would, who was he kidding? But for now she held him as his muscles tensed and his skin ached for want of the contact, him greedily tightening his grip, delighted at the body that was fuller than the squeeze's, curvier, better fed _and what _was _it with women imitating stick-bugs?_, more comfortable to touch _because he couldn't break his lady, not this one, not his smile, oh-no_.

She tried to speak and he raised their entwined hands in the dark-musty room _dark like her_ to place them on her lips; he wasn't here to talk about Ma_ro_ni or _the plan_ or the _Dent_ he needed to _iron out_ noooo, he was here _for her_, for _his smile_ and _the plan_ would wait until the next day.

"Take me home," he eagerly demanded two drinks and four or eight dances later, as the musty-dark was replaced by garish-bright, the cold wind let inside from the open stable doors as the herd was put out to pasture for the night. Now her eyebrows twitched, now he placed discomfort and unease and perhaps a little fear _you _could _teach an old dog new tricks _cross her round-pretty face as she told him no _of course not, but she would in time because he _owned _his smile, he always had and always would_ but she would call him a cab and he laughed, almost pulling his smile-hiding scarf down as his head fell back and he shook, he laughed and laughed and then brought their faces together, rubbing the tips of their noses in an Eskimo kiss like he'd gotten as a boy, holding her cheeks in his palms and snickering to himself.

Then he wished her a good night and walked off down the street, swinging his arms as he went, singing.

"_Goodnight, sweetheart, we-ell, it's time to go-o-o . . . Goodnight, sweetheart, we-ell, it's time to go-o-o . . . I hate to leave you but I really must say-y-y, goodnight, sweetheart, goodni-ight . . ._"


	2. Freezing Fire

Another night, another bar, more smoke in her lungs and garish lights in her eyes. She would wonder why Maroni never had her meet his man in a more upscale location, except she knew that to be seen with a mobster would ruin her already shaky career. If she'd been a little more careful, Dent would never have caught her in that racketeering fiasco. But she hadn't, her mother's constant illness and hospital bills driving her to desperation, and so she was stuck crawling around the underbelly of the city she was supposed to protect, chumming it up with the people she should be hauling off to jail.

And now this, this_ man _who practically begged her to take him home - to _her_ home - each time they met, never once giving her any information like her other contacts did, always wanting to dance with her, ply her with alcohol, _court_ her like they were a normal man meeting a normal woman at a normal bar in a normal city. She shivered every time he touched her with his burning hands; he always got too close, didn't have a _clue_ about personal boundaries. He grasped and clung and _snuffled_ her neck like a dog, like he'd never touched a woman before. He kept his face hidden under a scarf but his cold eyes warmed when they looked at her, warmed and chilled her with their eagerness as they drank her in.

He liked dancing and touching, buying her drinks that she hardly even looked at and bringing her flowers that she threw away as soon as he'd walked off. He liked to make her smile and, perversely, loved it when she frowned, claiming it was all right for her to frown because he already had her smile. He'd asked if her middle name was Chelsea (it was Lupe) and had gotten a kick out of that, too, and he was dangerous. The exaggerated bounce in his step did little to hide the violence that lay coiled within his taut body like a spring, bouncing gently up and down with no regard to his mood. He could just as easily get into a scuffle when he was happy as when he was angry, and she'd yet to see him truly angry. A little disappointed, a little put out, possibly somewhat miffed, but if he ever got truly angry she was sure that someone would die for it.

He kept pushing her and she kept resisting, but she never brought it up because in truth she liked his strength, liked that he was able to come and go and not care, not seem to have a worry - she was positive that no one waited at home for him, no one lay in a cold hospital room and depended on him to keep them alive. He had no one and nothing and that, maybe, that was the reason that he kept hanging around, to feel a part of something, a part of _her_. In the battle of give-and-take, he played both with enough finesse that she was left on the sidelines.

The thugs that had previously hit on the traitor-cop female had learned. They'd learned to leave her alone, as soon as she'd watched him casually drive a knife into the shoulder of an Italian (or had he been Russian? She couldn't remember past the tightness in her stomach and the intensity of his burning cold eyes) who hadn't wanted to take no for an answer. But the comments stopped, the offers of a warm bed (or just a warm body) died as the man screamed and grateful though she was to walk through the scum unmolested, the ease of his violence both frightened and comforted her. It spoke of safety and protection on the one hand and a devastatingly brutal approach to life on the other, an approach that could kill her if things got out of her control - and yes, she still pretended, sometimes, on nights like these in bars like this with men like him, that she was still in control.

"Take me home," he whispered again in her ear, his nightly prayer, and again she shook her head. His grip tightened slightly, sent burning ice through her body, and then he let her go with a twinkle in his eyes. "I've got your smile when you need it, just tell me when . . ."

Then his warmth left her, cold in the night air, feverish in her fear, singing as he walked away.

"_Goodnight, sweetheart, we-ell, it's time to go-o-o . . . Goodnight, sweetheart, we-ell, it's time to go-o-o . . . I hate to leave you but I really must say-y-y, goodnight, sweetheart, goodni-ight . . ._"


	3. Silent Thunder

**Author's Notes:** _Oaky, so I was going to try to make this a plausible pairing, but this is what happens when I try to write coherently in starts and stops at work: more crack. Please bear with me, and I'll do my best (even better) in the next bit!_

He wrapped his fingers around her upper arms _wanted her arms around his back_ and nestled his chin into the crook of her neck _wanted to lick the sweat from her throat_ and she tried a different tactic this time _tactful, tactful; couldn't outright demand her bed or her body_, leaning back into his embrace rather than flinching and pulling away, raising the hand not holding her beer to the back of his neck and drawing her nails across smooth skin, through surprisingly soft _recently washed_ curls _he'd hated them growing up, hated that they made him look like his father but now he rather fancied them because he'd caught his lady looking at them, caught her hand raising up to play with them when she thought he wouldn't notice so now he liked them_

He'd shifted his head as soon as she'd leaned back, her reaction unanticipated yet wholly welcome, but it was his own reaction after that was the most surprising. As soon as her nails hit flesh and dug in to perpetually tense muscles his entire body jerked and then melted, resting most of his weight across her back _back, back, on her back, digging her fingers into his back, biting his shoulder as she screamed her pleasure_ and arching up into the contact, an almost pained groan _no baby, it'll be fine, it won't hurt, I'll be gentle I swear_ forced from his mouth as he panted against her skin _like a dog, like a dog after a bitch only reluctantly in heat_, sucking on her exposed flesh in his greed for her touch. She cried out softly when he bit her _don't cry, please don't cry, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to hurt you, it'll be better next time_ and pushed him away and he fell atop the barstool next to her, watched her eyes widen as his scarf pulled down to show the tops of his scars, show her who she was shunning.

She murmured a curse _such awful language for so pretty a lady_ and he'd pulled her into his arms before she could run away, felt her body quaking with fear and maybe revulsion _damn it, I said I was sorry, what more do you want?!_ revulsion at him, she hated his touch and he hated her for it, wanted for one blinding moment to wipe her from his existence and why shouldn't he? Midnight rendezvous like these never turned out well, and well he would do to remember it in the future. His lady was like all the rest, giving up her friends and colleagues in order to survive, biting and snapping and he was _so close_, so incredibly close to blowing the hell out of this bar but as soon as he murmured that in her ear she stopped struggling against him, nevermind that her struggles brought a rush of blood to places normally only excited by death and destruction, upsetting the status quo and forcing people to see life as it was. His heart was pounding in his chest and he smiled at her, brushed his still-sensitive lips across her cheek, breathed in her scent until she relaxed, relaxed and rested her head submissively on his shoulder.

It was a ploy to save herself from violence and she knew it and _he_ new it and he let it _work_, pulled his lady between his legs and cradled her to him, shushing her gently as he stroked her shiny-straight hair. She was his, he told her, his and she was precious to him, he had no intentions of hurting her, she was his Anna-grin, his lady, the reason for his smile and why was she crying, now? She wouldn't answer, just shook her head and buried her face in his shoulder _stop crying, it couldn't have hurt that bad!_ and he let her, added her reactions to his mental file of human emotions, took the time to cup her flawless cheeks and kiss them, lick her tears away with tiny strokes of his tongue. He wanted her strong, he whispered, he wanted his lady to be strong, shush now and stop crying, because his lady was stronger than that.

His let his gaze follow her throat when she finally looked up at him, follow her throat down to the swell of breasts and watched as she took deep breaths to calm herself, the slight cleavage peeking out fueling his imagination as to what her blouse hid.

"Take me home," he whispered as the lights turned out, spurring them back to the dark of the streets. One day, she wouldn't deny him anything. One. Good. Day.


	4. Your Desolation

He wasn't as out-of-control as people claimed.

He couldn't be. He'd been stealing from the mob with impunity for months, now had all of Gotham in a panic . . . that took planning, planning so finely tuned and detail-oriented that it made her wonder if he had military experience, wonder if she would live to find that out.

She watched him watch her after he'd licked her tears away, watched him react as any man might do when presented with the opportunity to look at a woman's breasts, saw the flush on his cheeks from their brief struggle, a struggle he'd obviously enjoyed on several levels. He wanted her to take him home, he wanted her to be strong, but how strong was strong, and when did strength become foolishness? If she, now knowing who he really was, denied him again, would it push their interactions from a game to an irritating folly? Or would he admire her strength in still denying him? Did she want to damn herself by taking him home with her, and all that implied, and if she didn't, did she really think that she could hide from him?

He'd pulled her outside while her questions made her head pound and eased into the entrance of an alleyway, pressing her against the wall and nuzzling her neck like he loved to do. He was being more cautious this time, no doubt on guard to make sure she didn't give away his identity, cause a scene, bring the (good) police down on them. She rested her hands on his shoulders while she acquired a hickey on her throat, rested them where she could either pull him closer or push him away. He was taking more liberties than he'd ever taken but then again, she wasn't denying him now, and since she wasn't pushing him away, he would continue on, slowly and firmly, until she _did_ deny him.

If she told him no, she wondered aloud, what would he do?

He paused, having gotten both of her legs around his waist, his face half-buried in her cleavage, and breathed softly against her skin for a moment. His fingers dug into her thighs as he considered her question, he raised his head a little and tilted it to the side as he looked up at her from under his eyebrows. His was serious, but that didn't mean a thing.

Go home, he finally replied, and ask again the next time they met.

And if she kept telling him no?

Then one day soon, he whispered as his nails broke sin, he'd stop asking. And she wouldn't like the results.

He dropped her and she stumbled a little as her ankle tried to twist, but he was there, steady and solid, keeping her upright. She leaned into his strength under the pretense of finding her balance but really, and she didn't care if he knew, really she wanted more than physical support, her body demanding more of his assurance, his self-confidence, his kisses, even more of his scratches and his bites. She, sick of trying to control her uncontrollable life, wanted someone _else_ to do it for a while. And she wondered, looking up at him as he waited for her next move . . .

Why her?

Because she could change. She could change, he told her, she could change and not be like the others, stop living under rules imposed by the weak to keep control of the strong. She could stop blindly following a society that didn't understand her, that told her she couldn't do this, she had to do that, all because of accidents of birth. He saw this, he said, like he saw everything in people. And she had a really nice rack.

She was gifted with an impish grin and he hunched a little away from her, as if half-expecting a slap to the face. When she just stared at him his smile eased into something a little less boyish and a little more knowing, he leaned his head down and ran his fingers through the blood on her thighs under her skirt, shook maybe just a little when she hissed and arched her body into his.

"Take me home," he whispered against her lips.

She dug her license out of her skirt pocket and reached behind her, easing it under his grasping fingers.

He took it, looked at it, smiled and pulled her out of the alleyway to hail a cab.

**A/N:** _I makez plausible, yah?_


	5. The Old Familiar Stain

She gave in without a fuss. She gave him what he wanted from her. He panted above her and his lady let him touch her, let his hands and mouth go where they would. She reacted to his touch and shook her head when he buried his against her neck, sobbing even while she clutched at his back and refused to let him go. He hadn't given her a name to cry out so she just cried, cried when her touched her, cried when he kissed her, cried when he entered her and cried when he finally lay still above her.

He hadn't meant to be so frantic, so grasping and needy for her body. She was worried about a pregnancy and he raised himself up on his hands, lowering his head to look at her abdomen, glistening with mingled sweat, shifting when she slid her legs from his waist back to her rumpled bed that smelled of cinnamon. He settled back over her and pressed his mouth to her skin. He licked the salty wetness from it slowly, brought her arms back around his shoulders when he was overcome with the need to be held by her.

Perhaps she knew of his need to touch, because she held him tightly and ran her hands through his hair and over his skin, wonderfully warm against him, wonderfully alive, wonderfully _there_ as his grip once more dented her skin and pulled her to him. His lady came to him of her own accord, pulling him down next to her and wrapping one leg around his, bringing their bodies together once more but on a more equal setting than their first frenzied session.

This time he watched his lady as they moved together. He watched her dark eyes and the shame and need and desire in them, gauged her reactions to how he touched her, moved against her. She wanted to forget, and he wanted her to forget; forget who they were and what they were, know only that they needed each other and ignore what might come after.

It was her name he bit out before wrapping his arms tightly about her waist and shoulders, their foreheads pressed together as he listened to her whimper with pleasure. It was a far cry from the first time he'd held a woman; there was more pleasure, less tears, less pain. He rolled slightly to his back and brought his lady with him, sat up and listened as she cried out. It was exquisite. She wanted him, wanted the man in her bed. Her kisses and pets came willingly where they had been unwilling before and she looked at him and saw past the scars and saw just a man, a man who needed the woman in his arms.

Later, he lay on his back and she lay curled up next to him, both of them awake but neither of them moving, talking. He wasn't going to stay and she knew it. No matter what romantic fantasies either had enacted, his lady was but a dalliance from his life's work and he wasn't going to stay. Her fingers curled in against his chest and he stroked her shoulder out of reflex. He wasn't going to stay, but he would stay until she fell asleep.

He told her to get some sleep as he stared up at her ceiling and the flickering lights from the city that played there. Her lips moved against the muscle of his shoulder in what might have been an acknowledgement or what might have been a kiss. He would take it both ways.

She was precious, he told her softly as her breathing started to even out. She only needed a little push to embrace the true meaning of virginity, that of a woman who was whole unto herself and not needing others to command her. She would be his virgin lady, he whispered into her dark hair, she would be his virgin lady and he? He would be her court jester, holding up her smile with pride as she held court over all who had once held her back.

It was what he was good at.

**A/N:** Some disclaimers/explanations about the chapter titles. Except for Anna Grin, they're all song lyrics. Anna Grin is another term for Chelsea Grin or Glasgow Smile (or any combination of the Anna/Glasgow/Chelsea and grin/smile). Ramirez' first name is Anna. It fit. Freezing Fire, Silent Thunder, and Your Desolation are from _Take the Kiss_, by Inkubus Sukkubus. The Old Familiar Stain is from _Hurt_, originally done by Trent Reznor and covered by Johnny Cash; Cash's version was the one I was listening to while I wrote this.


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